


Spent With High Treason

by renesaramis



Series: my wayward son [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-09-25 23:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20379757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renesaramis/pseuds/renesaramis
Summary: The Dauphin's fifteenth birthday changes everything.





	1. the call of love

**Author's Note:**

> I always felt like the series wasn't quite finished, so I wrote this as a sort of epilogue and an attempt to wrap everything up. However, writing this has ... _awakened_ something in me, so there may be a Part 2 to this series, something more serious, more Musketeers-style and definitely less "kid fic"-y.

> _Are you awake?_   
_Have you fed your thoughts with nourishing ideas?_   
_Have you dressed your soul with the scent of flowers?_   
_Have you awakened your heart to the call of love?_
> 
> **Are you awake?**, Hussein Dekmak

The palace is alight with joy; it is the young Dauphin’s fifteenth birthday, and, to celebrate, the King has provided him with a party. He asked for something simple this year, and his father relented finally, letting him invite his friends and the four Inseparables, as well as several dukes and duchesses he doesn’t really know.

Not that any of these people matter. He has a glass of wine in one hand (his mother has only just given up advising him to wait until he’s older, and she’s now talking in hushed voices with the Musketeer Aramis, picking up and eating a Portuguese tart to muffle her voice) and François’ hand in his other, because they are the closest of friends, and François, if he daresay so himself, is proving to be a pretty good advisor, which every good future king needs. Philippe, he imagines, is sulking, because their father has agreed with their mother that, on this occasion, Philippe is much too young to be drinking wine too.

Roselle is dancing, arm in arm, somewhat clumsy and awkward, with Raoul, and Louis feels very sorry indeed for her. He knows just who she’d rather be dancing with. Élise hangs on delightedly to Minister Tréville’s arms as he swings her back and forth in time to the music, and Louis beams at the pair. This, he decides, is all he truly needs. Blood can only go so far in creating a family. The rest, you must do yourself.

François leans in, his breath brushing against Louis’ ear, smelling something like fermented grapes and the rough, musky sweat you get only from a life of work, that you can never scrub away, no matter what you bathe in. “Roselle looks like her pet dog’s died,” he comments. Pulling away, he stares intently at the Dauphin, lips twitching in a mischievous smirk, the kind Louis has become all too familiar with. “What do you say we bunk off for a little while?”

Louis glances at him. “Are you not having a good time? I’m sorry, I thought you might like this. I thought having everyone here would be fun. I know you don’t know any of the dukes or duchesses, but neither do I.”

François chuckles lowly, taking the glass from his friend’s hand and taking a gulp. “You know I’d tell you if I wasn’t having fun,” he says, his eyes falling upon the gold fleur-de-lis pinned to the breast of Louis’ navy ensemble. “I just thought it might be nice to go somewhere quiet for a while. When I want to take some time alone, I usually go out and watch the stars.”

“You’re not exactly alone if I’m coming,” Louis points out, voice dropping suddenly, eyebrows raised in confusion.

“Maybe I want to be alone with you.”

“My mother will be upset if she catches us sneaking out,” responds Louis, but there is a tease to his voice, and he releases his hold on François’ hand to push a strand of his friend’s blond hair behind his ears. It’s growing long now, almost to his shoulders. When he put Athos’ hat on the other week, he looked like a Musketeer already.

There’s a painting hanging just down the corridor from the Dauphin’s quarters, of himself and François when they were children, sat together in one of their drawing rooms. He doesn’t recognise that boy anymore; in fact, the only boyish thing left of his childhood companion is his devilish grin, the one that clearly says he’s up to something mischievous.

But even that is rare these days.

“She won’t catch us,” replies François confidently, glancing back to where the Queen is still talking with Aramis. Three more Portuguese tarts have disappeared from the pyramid. “Those tarts must be good,” he adds, nudging Louis’ shoulder. “Come on.”

They retreat through the door unnoticed, François pulling Louis into the hallway. “I have an idea.”

“I thought we were going outside?”

“Don’t be silly. Come on.” François hooks his arm around the Dauphin’s waist, leaning against his shoulder. “Think. Where’s the one place we’ve never been able to get into?”

Louis stills. “No … you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“How?” he demands, eyes wide in disbelief.

“You know how much wine Tréville’s had tonight,” says François easily. “He’ll be a wreck tomorrow morning. Anyway, I took the key from his pocket when I bumped into him before.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Louis scoffs quietly. “If we get caught—”

“We won’t,” he reasons. “Look at it this way: the minister is too drunk to realise he doesn’t even _have _these,” and he holds up a set of gold keys, shaking them, “the Queen is devouring an entire bakery’s worth of tarts, and Aramis is too busy watching her do that to realise we’re missing. The King is probably trying to drag your brother headfirst out of his bedroom, and my parents are more than likely in a closet somewhere.”

Louis shudders. “Gross. But what about Constance and d’Artagnan?”

“Easy. Constance is trying to stop d’Artagnan from killing Raoul, because _he’s _dancing with Roselle. And don’t mention Porthos, because he went home _hours_ ago.”

“Hey, François?” asks the Dauphin, suddenly. “Why _is _Aramis watching my mother eat those tarts?”

François shrugs. “How would I know?”

“Why is my mother eating those tarts anyway? They’re not _that _good.”

“Again, no idea.” He grabs the Dauphin’s hand vivaciously. “Let’s go, anyway. We have to be quick, just in case someone notices we’re missing.”

Louis follows him doggedly down the corridors of the Louvre, unquestioning to François’ lead. He grins at the sight of the forbidden door to the First Minister’s office: for the first time, in both of their lives, the one room they’ve never been able to get into has suddenly, and rather excitingly, become accessible to them.

François jams the key into the lock, turning it frantically, hands shaking. Perhaps it is all the wine he’s been drinking, supposes Louis, because although he’s excited to see what the room has to share, he’s not excited enough to _tremble _with anticipation. He _does_ bounce on the balls of his feet a little but stops when the door opens with not even a creak.

“Oiled this morning,” the older boy guesses.

The First Minister’s office is dark and shadowed, and there’s not a candle in sight. Shelves piled with documents are filled even up to the ceiling, and in the middle of the room sits a black and gold desk, uncluttered except for a quill and a small jar of thick black ink.

“There’s nothing in here,” grumbles Louis, sighing sharply. “Let’s just go back to the party. I want to ask my mother about the tarts.”

François laughs. “Just say you’re scared. Say you’re scared to get caught.” He turns to the desk and sits upon it, beckoning the Dauphin further into the room. The prince slams the door behind him, shrouding the room in darkness. The only light comes from the moon, gleaming in through the window.

“Are you still scared?”

“No,” responds the Dauphin stubbornly, shuffling forward, so that he can feel François’ breath against his skin, hot and yet chilling him to the bone. He doesn’t know what it is that makes him shudder, only that he does, and he looks up at his friend, seeing his shadow move in the dark.

“Really?” asks François softly. He leans his head forward, swinging his legs back and forward against the back of the desk. “If anyone finds us here, we’ll be in so much trouble.” He swallows audibly, smirking at the prince. “What if your father catches us?” Then, after a beat, he says, “What if your _mother _catches us?”

“What if I don’t care?”

Louis grabs François’ shirt in a sudden fever of passion, pulling him closer and almost off the desk, kissing him fervently, barely gasping for air as the blond rests his hands on his shoulders to steady himself. Everything, Louis realises, makes sense. What they are doing, makes _sense. _Nothing feels more right than this.

He gasps again, his mouth full of breathless laughter. “I like this room.”

“Very much so,” agrees François, leaning in for another kiss.

“I like _you_,” adds Louis, their lips meeting once more, just moments away from each other.

The door crashes open, and the pair fly apart, palms sweating. François, who has a full view of whoever has interrupted them, flushes a perfect pink, eyes darting frantically between Louis and …

_Athos._

The man, his _father_, is still with shock, eyes wide, and François wants to cringe, to flinch away from his eyeline. He doesn’t want to watch his father’s expression turn from surprise to disappointment, and then to _anger_.

So he pushes the Dauphin away, ducks under Athos’ arm, and, tears sprouting from his eyes, chest burning, he runs blindly down the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: _It is only then, when the initial panic ebbs away, leaving nothing but his own soft cries pounding through his ears like a heartbeat, that François realises he is not alone._


	2. Chapter 2

He can hardly breathe through the panic, seized by some invisible, unnamed force, weighing down his doublet and trousers, shoved in his shirt, pressing hard against his chest. His legs feel like rubber, thumping themselves somehow down the hallway, not quite knowing where he’s going but pulling open doors upon doors anyway, fearfully frantic until his legs give way, and he falls loudly to the floor, breaths chopping through the dead silence in the room.

It is only then, when the initial panic ebbs away, leaving nothing but his own soft cries pounding through his ears like a heartbeat, that François realises he is not alone. His hands instinctively fly over his eyes as Aramis and the Queen pull away from their positions, too close to be friendly, his hands once on her waist but now in the air in some kind of surrender, her face probably flushed bright red in embarrassment.

François gasps again, letting out a real sob this time; can’t he get a moment’s peace? Can’t he catch a _goddamn _break?

“François,” comes Aramis’ voice then, soft and husky and _warm_, like coming home to a roaring fireplace and a well-intentioned and tight hug. “Hey, hey, kid. What’s wrong?” His hand, roughened from years of handling muskets and swords, rests on the youth’s shoulder. He can hear Aramis’ knees click quietly as he kneels in front of him, so François chooses this moment to open his eyes, sniffling loudly as he looks at them with teary eyes.

His uncle’s eyes are creased with worry, the Queen not far behind, quite unlike he’s ever seen her before: her hair is loose in long blonde ringlets, cherub-like, her cheeks still flushed, but not as he imagined she would be at being caught in such a personal moment.

His hand flies over his mouth.

“You—” His mouth stops working suddenly, his eyes darting between them. “That’s why you were … _Oh. _It makes sense now.”

The Queen, he realises, seems to have gone very still. Aramis also, he then notices.

He drops his hand, shaking; he doesn’t know which of them is more surprised, but supposes his face much resembles Athos’ when he—

François swallows, remembering exactly why he’s sat on his feet, half-crying on the floor of the Queen’s quarters, to begin with. “Uncle Aramis,” he begins, his voice suddenly timid, and he can’t bring himself to look at them anymore, even though the Queen edges closer, concerned. “I’m in trouble.”

“No, no,” reassures Aramis. “You’re not in trouble at all. But you can’t tell anyone what you saw; you can’t tell anyone that I was in here, hmm?”

“I don’t mean that. Papa’s gonna be so _angry_,” he expresses in a whimper, his eyes filling with tears again, because not only does he absolutely not regret that kiss one bit, he actually _liked _it, liked that it was a boy he was kissing.

No kiss with Roselle could be sweeter or more loving. It had felt like his and Louis’ lips just fit together, satisfying in the same way you put down a piece in a jigsaw puzzle that makes something click in your brain, and everything seems so much easier to place. Sure, you’ve not finished the puzzle yet, but there are some other pieces that can fit in now, and François likes boys.

François likes boys.

He breathes in the new information—but then, perhaps, it isn’t new at all; perhaps he’s always been this way but just never realised it until now—and chokes it back out again, letting himself fade into the haze of what he knows is fear, is worry, is the desperate desire to have everything back the way it was before his lips touched the Dauphin’s and he tasted euphoria.

How long has Louis known? How long had he wanted that kiss? Did he know François would feel the same way, or was it a reach into the dark unknown; the biggest risk he’s ever taken? The possibility it might ruin their friendship?

… And, then, if Louis _had _known François would feel the same way, is it obvious? It can’t have been to Athos, but maybe to Aramis, to the Queen, standing in front of him now. To his mother, or to Raoul or Minister Tréville—

“I want to go _home_,” he manages finally.

“Let’s go find your mother, then.” Aramis sounds tired.

“_No!_” François bursts out, jerking himself backwards with a desperation that surprises even himself. “With you,” he adds, quieter this time.

Aramis studies him carefully. “Whatever’s happened,” he says gently, “it’s going to be all right. Athos won’t be angry for long.”

“How do you know?”

“He could never stay angry at you. He loves you far too much.”

* * *

François blinks in the darkness. He asked Aramis to blow out the candle, hours ago when he thought he might’ve been able to fall asleep, but he’s still awake, anxiety gnawing at his stomach. His entire life is going to change, and not for the better. He’ll most likely be distanced from the Dauphin, not talk to him for as long as his father is alive to forbid them from seeing each other; and then he’ll be betrothed to Roselle, upsetting Raoul and probably Roselle herself in the process.

He sighs, sits up in his bed—what was once Aramis’ guest room has turned into his bedroom over the years; in the dark he can just make out, hung on the wall, the toy sword Aramis gave him for his sixth birthday, and, hooked on a peg next to it, the small leather hat d’Artagnan bought for the same birthday—and his eyes glance over to the door. He considers the thought that Aramis might be asleep, that he won’t want to be disturbed. But he also considers the serious look in his uncle’s eyes when he asked François to come and talk to him if he needed to.

And François has started training with the other Musketeer recruits; he knows an order when he hears one, even if it doesn’t sound like it.

He rises carefully, and quietly makes his way from his bedroom and across the landing to Aramis’ room. The floorboards creak under his feet in a way they never used to, but his uncle’s door is open as it usually is when he comes to stay. In the moments when François thinks everything is changing, there’s always something that doesn’t. Somewhere, some part of his life stays rooted in the past, an overly stubborn tree trunk that has claimed its part of the earth forever.

Aramis is awake when he crawls under the covers and hisses when Francois’ foot touches his calf. ‘Your feet are cold,’ he complains in a murmur, but his tone is warm, like the last sunshine of winter. You take as much of it as you can get, because you know there’s a storm coming.

Or maybe you don’t know. Maybe you take the sun for granted and don’t even realise you are until the storm comes, and you are shivering, freezing cold and wet, longing for the warmth you once had.

‘Does anyone know? About you and—?’

‘D’Artagnan and Constance. Porthos. Tréville. Your parents.’

‘Athos?’ François’ voice is high and anxious when he mentions his father’s name. ‘How did he find out?’

Aramis chuckles in the darkness. ‘He walked in on us.’

The boy swallows; his throat feels thick and tight, and he says nothing.

‘François …’ begins his uncle, ‘whatever’s happened, I’m sure Athos will understand. Everything will be OK. Just talk to him … tomorrow.’

François blinks in the darkness, unable to speak.

‘He loves you, kid. More than anything. _Anything_. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.’

The boy curls up under the covers, turning away from Aramis to face the light of the crescent moon outside his uncle’s window. As much as he hopes, wishes, that tomorrow will fix everything, that Athos will somehow forget what he saw tonight, he can hardly dare to believe that something like that could ever happen.

Still, Aramis’ words spin around in his head like children, rambunctiously twirling in dizzying circles.

_There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you._

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus: I now have a Musketeers network on Discord, so if you fancy yelling about how much you miss the Inseparables being on your TV every week, [ join at this here link](https://discord.gg/t9tGQQ7)


End file.
